Stories for the Night
by Safire
Summary: A collection of short stories regarding various Hogwarts' students, past and present. Please leave comments or suggestions for future stories.
1. Welcome

**Stories for the Night**

Greetings, fair stranger.  I fear if you came in search of a nice warm room for the night, you are out of luck.  But as long as you're here, I might as well regale you with some anecdotes, hmm?  Well, then, let me think…Ah yes.  I have a couple in mind that will do just the trick.  Of course, if you have a request, just drop me a note.  But for now, I shall tell you my favorite tales…

Atop a lush green mountainside sat a distinguished and aged castle, with majestic turrets and grandiose arches.  This was Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, one of the most famous wizarding schools in the world.  For years, students came and left, never to be heard of again.  But the precious few, ah…they were the ones who would be forever remembered.


	2. The Forgotten Sport

I. The Forgotten Sport 

Some were great athletes, mastering the techniques and strategies of Quidditch, once the most popular wizarding game throughout the world.  Sadly, it was hardly ever played again after the accident.

It was four years past the new millennium, and the greatest Quidditch match was to be held at the Hogwarts grounds.  Not by current students, but by the alumni of the wizarding school.  Ah, my wrinkled mind cannot remember them all at the moment…there was Beech, Bell, Jensen, and of course, Wood.  Oliver Wood, at just twenty-nine years of age, was already known as the most distinguished Keeper in all of Hogwart's history.  Not too bad of a figure either!  The ladies were all over him, but _that's a different story for a different time._

The day of the match was grey and windy.  Oliver, decked in black, got ready in the locker room.  He mumbled under his breath, prepping himself up for the game.  Whoever was holding this event failed to give Oliver much information.  For one thing, they had contacted him just last night, desperately hoping that he didn't have anything to do the next morning.

Trumpets sounded outside, and Oliver raised his head.  It was game time.  He grabbed his cherished broomstick since his sixth year, a Thunderbolt 45, developed exclusively to his preferences, and headed out to the field.

The bleachers were full up to the brim, with people of all ages cheering as the players flooded from the locker rooms.  Oliver strode out proudly and smiled as he heard the increasing applause.  He caught a glimpse of Katie Bell, a former teammate of his, dressed in white, and his heart sank.  Biting his lip nervously, he headed over to the beautiful girl, but was stopped short when he heard the announcer commence.

"WELCOME," shouted Quidditch expert Kennilworthy Whisp excitedly, "TO THE MOST ANTICIPATED GAME OF ALL TIME!"

More cheers exploded from the stands.

"I can see you're all ready for this, so HERE THEY ARE!"

The players mounted their brooms and zoomed up as their names were called.

"I am proud to introduce the Black Team: Beaters Gorgon and Beech; Chasers Ullen, Wong, and Peters; Keeper Wood; and Seeker Weasley!"

Once again, an enthusiastic response rushed out from the crowd.  Amongst them, two distinctively rowdy redheads attempted to shout above the commotion.

"Lay your wagers, people!  Last chance for glory!"

"Bet for Black!  That's our bro, there!  Finest Seeker there is, the bloke!"

When they realized few people were paying attention to them, they shouted, "Come now, people!  Give us a break!"

"We need to replace the shop door!  There was a bit of an – _accident – with the latest batch of Canary Creams…"_

"Ah screw the bets – just come to Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, located in Diagon Al –" 

The two walking advertisements were quickly silenced by a very irritated Whisp.  "Hey Weasleys!  Shut your traps!"

Everyone turned to look at the announcer, whose cheeks turned a bright scarlet.  Apparently he had forgotten the amplifying spell was still at work.

"Um…and who could forget the White Team!" he stammered quickly.  "Beaters Shay and Jensen, chasers Alans, Petri, and Bell (Oliver subconsciously glanced over to her); Keeper Teloti; and Seeker Hamms!  Enough chatter – let the game _begin!"_

A very excited Lee Jordan, dressed in a stately cloak, stepped up to the center of the field and released the Quidditch balls.  And they were off!

Alans, of the White Team, was the first to get to the Quaffle, seizing the red ball and dodging the other players.  Beater Gorgon attempted to aim the Bludger towards her, but Alans was much too fast on her sleek Nimbus Special Edition.  Unfortunately, her aim wasn't too great either.  Oliver reacted quickly, but the Quaffle bounced off the rim of the left hoop anyways, causing a loud ring to resonate through the field.  

"Tough luck!" proclaimed Whisp.  "Gotta work on that aim!"

Peters, of the Black Team, immediately snatched up the Quaffle and darted towards one of the goal posts on the opposite side of the field.  Following the path of the Chaser carefully, Shay gripped his wooden club tightly as the Bludger approached, and BAM!  The nearly uncontrollable ball slammed violently into Peters' back.  The young man arched his back painfully and began a swift descent to the ground.  Wood looked down, dismayed at the injury of his teammate, and watched as a few Sideline Flyers promptly saved Peters from the fall and took him away.

"Ooh, that'll keep him in the infirmary for a couple of weeks…" voiced Whisp, a bit worried.

Oliver looked around, and to his relief, saw a reserve player being sent up.

"And here's reserve Chaser Ellings, in for Peters," announced Whisp, regaining his poise.

As the chasers zoomed about the field, passing and intercepting the red Quaffle, Oliver wondered why it was taking Charlie so long to catch the Snitch.  He decided that it all must be some fantastic conspiracy to keep this game going as long as possible.  A boom was heard all around, and everyone – whether in the bleachers or on a broomstick – gazed upwards to see the grey clouds rolling in menacingly.

After ducking from an incoming Bludger, Oliver inspected the field once again.  He watched attentively as Petri and Alans passed the Quaffle in a zigzagged course, avoiding the Bludgers and other players.  He kept alert, but his heart skipped a beat at the next pass.  Katie Bell had intercepted the red ball, and with a determined grin on her face, she sped off towards the goal.

The announcer was still shouting comments, and the fans in the bleachers were still cheering excitedly, but Oliver couldn't hear any of it.  All he could hear was the sweet voice of Katie Bell, the one he had fallen in love with during his fourth year at Hogwarts – the one he was still in love with.

There wasn't anything about her that he didn't love: she had unlimited talent, was one of the brightest students in her class, and treated everyone with a kind of unbiased compassion.  And to him, there was no one more wonderful.

A great wind swept passed him, and suddenly Oliver shook off his daydreams.  Katie Bell was nearing him, Quaffle under her arm, eyes directed towards the closely-approaching goal post.

_I can't do it, thought Oliver miserably.  He watched her speed towards him, a small part of him hoping that she might just stop and proclaim her undying love for him at any second.  _Who am I kidding? _Oliver thought, shaking himself from his hopelessness.  _Why would someone as gorgeous, as talented ever want…__

Oliver never got to finish his thoughts.  He merely had the chance to raise his eye contact enough to see red zoom through a hoop and hear cheers explode from the crowd.  The weight of a Bludger, black as a Grim, had found contact at the back of his head.  A terrifying crack, although drowned by the sounds of the stadium, resonated in the ears of nearby players.  Without a second thought, or even a signal from Lee, all the players stopped.  The scene was frozen, paused in the moment of inevitable dread.

People jumped to their feet, gasps and cries echoing through the audience as Oliver's limp body slumped forward, almost as if he was too tired to hold on.  The clouds in the sky were suddenly very dark, looming above the field.  A rumble shook the stands, but nobody paid attention, even when the drops began to hurtle down on them.

Everything seemed to be playing in slow motion.  Oliver's head lolled as he rolled off his broom and began his descent.  Many players, regardless of the color they were wearing, zoomed forward, their arms outstretched in attempt to catch his limp figure, but none was fast enough.  That didn't keep them from trying, however.  Charlie flew past the all and nose-dived downward at breakneck speed, hurtling closer and closer to his unconscious body.

But the gods were unfavorable that day.

Sensing his utter determination, a strong flurry of winds shot out, aiming viciously at Charlie.  He was caught off guard and was blown towards the other side of the field.  He could no more than watch as Oliver's body fell, at last, to the green grass below.

The stadium was so silent, so tense; the thud could have been heard for miles around.  Lee Jordan sprinted toward the heap that was his body, followed closely by Whisp and then every single spectator in the stands, concern boiling in their very blood.  The players flew down as well, some with stern looks in their eyes, others with tears.  No one doubted it, yet perhaps somewhere deep inside all of them, there was the slightest flicker of hope.

Charlie Weasley pushed through the crowd and knelt by Oliver's body apprehensively.  A part of him, like everyone else, didn't want to know, but the other part needed to know.  He swallowed deep, his eyes quickly filling with tears.  He looked up, not really at anyone in particular.  It was almost as if he were looking up towards the sky itself.  But he didn't need to say a word.

The players stayed close and tried to comfort each other, although most had trouble enough comforting themselves.  Katie couldn't keep herself from shaking, both in misery and terror.  _…A guy like him.  So gifted, so charming, so devoted_, she thought despondently.  Through her water-filled eyes, she could hardly see as Charlie pulled out his wand and mumbled something under his breath, trying to stop his own tears.  Oliver's body was slowly laid straight, his hands folded on top of each other above.

Charlie didn't get up from the ground.  He remained kneeling besides his old friend, his eyes closed tightly.  Katie soon felt the need to kneel as well, finding her spot next to Charlie.  Fred and George also emerged from the crowd and knelt beside their older brother and once Quidditch captain.

Tears rolled down everyone's cheeks, but nobody made a sound.  It was as if still nobody noticed the horrid weather, or more likely, nobody cared.  After what seemed to be a lifetime, people slowly began to find their way inside, towards the castle.  Yet Katie and the Weasleys didn't have the slightest intention of moving.  Besides their old friend, there they would stay, accompanying him until he found his way towards the bliss that waited for him above.

Katie Bell wanted to apologize for never trying, for hiding her feelings.  She wanted to take Oliver's hand, cold and stiff as it was, and plead for him to come back, even if it was just for a second.  But what use was there to speak, to apologize for things that happened in the past?  They were things that could never be fixed, never be forgiven.

The rain settled down a bit.  No longer did thin knives of water attack the few remaining spectators who stood on the field.  These people knew that this sport, that Quidditch, was no more.  They felt the love of the game, the once fierce flame of spirit and determination, die away as the clear teardrops from above fell upon them without hurry.


	3. Finis

II. Finis

There were others whose marks were much more subtle, much closer to the heart. I feel it would be wrong to tell this tale through anything other than the eyes of the very person who experienced it...

* * *

The last time we were together lingers about me, like a ghost.

I was sitting patiently and transfixed at words that I recently put onto paper. The seat was deteriorating, disgraceful, disgusting...but one could say that about a lot of things. Instead, I kept my attention toward the journal that was propped on the right armrest. The scratching of the quill continued after a few more moments of thought.

Sirius, no doubt as bored and frustrated as ever, entered the room more silently than I could ever remember. He leaned casually against the repulsive, nightmarish, forest-green-papered wall behind my chair, more like a scheming cat than a playful dog. He couldn't see my face, but the corners of my mouth turned upwards. I liked how Sirius wasn't demanding; he never insisted on bothering me or pressing for conversation. Words were just an accessory for him, like when he used to humour the ogling Hogwarts girls that would follow him like a swarm of fleas. But at his core, words were never a necessity. He always understood those closest to him, often better without the burden of words.

After another moment, I scribbled a few more words down. The sound of the scratching--dogs have an amazing sense of hearing--must've intrigued Sirius; I soon felt him behind the chair, craning his neck in an attempt to see what I was writing so eagerly. He didn't move and he didn't make a sound. I knew dogs could be like that sometimes, still and reflective. Padfoot was no exception. For the past two years, we returned to our old habit of transforming together when the moon came to shine full and silver. When we changed, I learned to love Padfoot's company.

"Take a seat," I said, very much out of the blue. "I'll explain."  
  
Rarely did Sirius not listen to me when we were in the drawing room together. Perhaps being a dog did him some good. Casual again, he slid so he was half way onto the left armrest. 

"A while ago," I started, "Arthur was kind enough to offer me a stack of yellowing Muggle textbooks that he had finished researching. On top was a physics text, and as I flipped through the pages, I found about a section about waves. Something caught my eye. It said that in higher altitudes, a pendulum clock will run faster than usual due to an increased pressure. And it got me thinking: you know how I've always believed in a sort of human clockwork theory? Well, if intrinsically we all run on clockwork--gears and needles and the like--wouldn't we, too, be affected with great changes in altitudes? And what's the greatest altitude change one experiences but the descent...or ascent...into the afterlife?"

(Going from thought to thought so quickly, it hardly occurred to me that I had only added "ascent" as a sort of afterthought.)

"Except ghosts," offered Sirius. "Let's not forget their sad case. Stuck in some pathetic limbo, not allowed to be completely content with their life. You know, if I should die, my worst nightmare would be to become a ghost. True, we've suffered our losses, we've sacrificed, we've felt terrible pain, but to spend eternity brooding over some petty unfulfillment...it's idiocy. There's too much to smile about to linger on regret and loathing and pain. Think of James and..."

"Don't, Sirius. I know." I had turned my face a little more to the right, towards my journal, away from Sirius. "But let me finish. What I'm wondering is whether people, as their final day approaches, slow down or speed up, in a manner of speaking, just like clocks. Those who've lived wrong, pitiful lives must go through a decay, mentally or physically or psychologically." I paused instinctively. "But those who've done great in their life, they experience glory, aristeia. They remember everything worthwhile in their life, so in their final moment, they are not regretful but proud."

"...You've been thinking too much, Remus."

I turned very suddenly to face Sirius, but this time he was the one who had his face turned away to the left. It might've been like that since his remembering James and Lily, but I couldn't say. I also couldn't be sure that Sirius paid attention as I spoke. But I knew, somehow, that he understood me. And I'm sure he believed it, too, because he knew James and Lily, better than anyone else, and he knew that they regretted nothing.

Neither of us spoke for the rest of the evening, but the scratching of my quill went on. Eventually, when the night got so dark that even I wasn't sure where shadows began and where they ended, Sirius placed his hand on my shoulder and left as silently as he had entered. I was sure he didn't go upstairs to his bedroom, though. He suddenly had a lot on his mind.

Holding a candle, I return to the threshold of the drawing room, the one with the serene, beautiful, forest-green-papered wall. It's my first time in 12 Grimmauld since I bid Harry farewell at King's Cross Station. My fading, leather-bound journal lays in peace on the same chair. The same one.

It takes me several minutes to finally allow myself to enter the room, unused since our last moment together. Slowly and far from surely, I approach the chair, tender with its old age and wear. I come up to the left side, set the candle by the journal, crouch down, and open the journal to the last page.

Being so close to him, I feel that so much hesitation isn't quite necessary. I put the quill to paper and the scratching ensues, as if it had never stopped since that night so long ago. The candle, spreading small waves of light over the page, seems to trace the words as they pour right out of me:

_Mr. Moony would like to send his last farewell to Mr. Padfoot and let him know that_

I stop. I know. I take out my wand, sweep it slowly over the paper, and the words are gone. Turning away, I don't notice the drop of wax that falls onto the parchment.


	4. Rivers Left Uncrossed

III. Rivers Left Uncrossed

Some tales are often never told, left in some dark corner of minds that wish to forget them. But no memory is ever lost, even if we choose not to remember it, even if the object of the memory never knew such a memory ever existed at all.

* * *

Staring back lifelessly at his reflection, he feebly adjusted his tie, banded between dull silver and evergreen, hardly noticing all the commotion from the hallway, no doubt created by faces he could recognize but could not fully appreciate. Seven years at this school and not a real memory of any of it. Seven listless years.

Blaise Zabini took a final look at his hair, dark and wavy, before grabbing his black robes and heading out to the Great Hall. Every time he passed an arrow-slit window, his eyes would linger at the night sky, the particularly dark night sky. The sky must've been wearing a black veil—was it hiding a secret of its own? Finally, Blaise reached the tapestry of the Parcae, behind which was the secret path back to the main hall of the castle. Pulling out his wand and tapping the golden thread, which shifted on the loom slowly, ominously, Blaise watched the tapestry roll up obediently. He let out a bored sigh. It was going to be a long night.

He started his way up the curved, stone steps, and finally reached the archway, only meters away from the entrance to the Great Hall. He could just get it over with, this last meal, and then he would never have to see this castle and these people again. But there was something in the back of his mind that still bothered him. A whispering. He could hear it, but just barely. It wasn't until a few moments had passed that he realized that the whispering wasn't in his head. Blaise stopped. The quiet voice was coming from around the corner. It was a familiar voice, a soft voice. He leaned against the stone wall quietly and glanced over his shoulder.

It was her. She had an evening bag slung over her shoulder and she was wearing her Slytherin uniform as well. And that was just about all he noticed. But his mind made up all kinds of other details: the way her hair moved as she walked, like the thin curtains of an opened window on a breezy day; the way she seemed deeply saddened by something no one would ever know about; the way the way a slight grin would play upon her lips after their eyes met.

So many imaginary details flooded his head that he hardly realized it when actual words were spoken. His head tilted upwards and their eyes met. Lavender Brown had the most gorgeous blue eyes… "Oh! Blaise… I…didn't know anyone else was here. I must sound like a madman, talking to myself." A pause. "Are you…coming up?" she said to him finally, feigning ease of expression.

But he saw beyond this, at what she really wanted to hear. Or rather, what he wanted so much to say. Not just a simple answer to her words of courtesy, but a full explication of us. She didn't even say my name because she doesn't want us to be two separate entities, but rather one union. Not he and she, but us. So define us.

I battle within. What is it that you want to hear?

What if I told you that I never spent a sleepless night on account of you? What if I told you that I never wept a single tear thinking about you? What if I told you that I never smiled just thinking about what it would be like if we shared something real?

Certainly, I would've been telling too many lies to count.

I looked her straight in the eyes. But a part of me—a part that prefers the dark, little corners in my mind—took over. It answered for me before I even got the chance:

"Don't you have somewhere to be, Brown?"

And there it was. The frown appeared on her face, her shoulders sunk. In less than a second, she had turned around and fled the scene. And throughout it all, I maintained the cold sneer on my face. I didn't even give her the simple courtesy of a look in the eye. I had frozen up, more on the outside than the inside, becoming the image of just another Slytherin, cold and unfeeling, with no understanding of love.


End file.
